


Nighthawks

by mrwonderwoman (fem_castielnovak)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1940s, Alternate Universe - Diners, Artist Clint Barton, Clothed Sex, First Meetings, Intercrural Sex, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Praise Kink, Secret Agent Phil Coulson, Slice of Life, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-25
Updated: 2017-03-25
Packaged: 2018-10-10 14:18:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10439538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fem_castielnovak/pseuds/mrwonderwoman
Summary: There's freedom in late night conversations with strangers in diners: reality doesn't seem so close, and if you want something then you place an order.inspired by Edward Hopper's paintingNighthawks





	

**Author's Note:**

> The weirdest part about writing this fic was having them be on a first name basis right off the bat.
> 
>  
> 
> (sorry to do this, but ...) This work belongs to me, @mrwonderwoman, and I don't give permission for anyone to submit or post this anywhere without my permission.

  

[](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nighthawks#/media/File:Nighthawks_by_Edward_Hopper_1942.jpg) 

 

**New York City, 1941**

Steve rigs the jukebox after the evening rush. When it’s past midnight and this part of Brooklyn is positively dead except for Phil and Natasha sitting at the counter of the diner. Steve’s taste in music is one of the things they both appreciate about the place. Bucky’s cooking is another.

But tonight, they sit quietly with just their cigarettes and their white, ceramic mugs of rich coffee.

War is on the horizon.

It’s … well, it’s been obvious for years. Distant and theoretical and taking place an ocean away - brushed aside as a difference of ideals by too much of the American public. The reality of it, however, is fast approaching at a seemingly exponential speed with no room to prepare.  
After six weeks in Tokyo and four more in D.C., that much is painfully plain to Phil and Natasha. All the intelligence they’d accumulated is now sitting in a file cabinet, purposefully being ignored. The scrupulous last touches and situation settlements; organization and extraction of operatives and the key information they’d gathered over months of study; all of it skimmed then promptly tucked out of the way. Worse; upon their return to Washington, they’d been forced to interact politely with Japan’s ambassadorial party like they weren’t treading through a nest of rattlesnakes.

Other plans were being put into place, they were told. They’d done an admirable job, but the focus was being moved elsewhere, the higher-ups had said, things had changed in the interim.  
Phil and Natasha were well aware that things had changed – _were_ still changing. The Pacific Ocean was busy and lonely and not enough of the men in Washington were keeping an eye on it. If Phil were a more lyrical man, he’d make up metaphors about volcanoes and tectonic plates. But at the time of Phil and Nat’s departure, nothing had erupted, and according to their superiors, nothing was _going_ to erupt. Their team had been pulled back before any of the data they’d added together could be properly analyzed and acted upon; they hadn’t had a chance to suppress any potential eruptions. Yet, even at that point, they’d still had hope of changing minds once they’d gotten back to headquarters in the U.S. It was naïve at best – politicians weren’t easy to sway. Once again, Phil lamented the limits of publically unknown peacetime espionage organizations.

The bell above the door jangles loudly.

“Steve Rogers, I could kiss you,” announces the man bursting in. Steve straightens up from where he’d been bent over reaching for something beneath the counter. A smile creeps onto his face as the man steps closer and drops a booklet onto the counter, “You’ve made me a very rich man.”

Steve wipes his big hands with a cloth and steps closer to him, “And what’s this?”

The man taps the counter with his index finger, “Your very own signed copy. They cut me my first royalty check today and I thought, what better place to celebrate than with the heroes themselves?” He shrugs his shoulders as Steve reaches to pick the booklet up. “So I went home and got smashed and read the story out loud to my blissfully empty apartment and laughed at every panel. Then I woke up and decided to drop by and check in on the two lugs I first bounced the idea off’a.”

Phil notes that he appears to be hiding a grin.

Steve glances over the cover and hums noncommittally. The man rolls his eyes, “Al _right_ , so I didn’t. But if I tell you this was my first stop, it’ll go straight to your head.”

Steve looks up and smiles at him but the man is avoiding eye-contact and waving his hand ambiguously, like he’s embarrassed. “Go on; look it over. Tell me what you think,” he says, walking down the length of the counter towards where Phil and Natasha are sitting and taking the second stool from the end. He gives a polite smile to both of them.

Phil can sense Natasha watching the man but he’s more interested in Steve’s reaction to the booklet. Phil spares the man a glance though, and finds him incredibly focused on settling into his seat. He looks back to Steve, whose large frame is curled in on himself as he flips slowly through the colorful pages in his palms.

“Jeez, Clint. This is really somethin’.” His eyes are glued to the book until he looks up at the lack of verbal response.

The man, Clint, shrugs and offers the briefest of acknowledging smiles with a glance at Steve, before he goes back to nervously fiddling with a cigarette case.

“I mean it,” Steve insists, “These are fantastic.” He carefully spreads the book out in front of Clint and points at a panel with a fairly detailed, full-page close up illustration of a man’s face. The coloration is simplistic but the line art is intricate from what Phil can see. He realizes that it must be a comic book and feels a bit silly for not considering it before.

“Yeah, well you’re obliged to say that.” Clint responds, finally lighting his cigarette and shaking out the match. “Otherwise it’d mean I’d wasted all your time; all the hours you’ve let me sit here and draw your ugly mug and toss around story ideas with you, I probably owe you well more than half of the check they’re cutting me.”

For all the bravado he’d walked in with, he’s become suddenly shy in the face of judgement. Phil imagines how the man must have looked on his way here; professional mask on as he exited his place of work, then, as he got further away, a lunatic grin blooming across his handsome features while he strolled down the street, excited to share good news with his friends…

“Quick, Stevie, call a lawyer while we’ve still got witnesses.”

Bucky beams out at them through the window to the kitchen. Phil glances at Clint and finds a wide, friendly smile on his face at the cook’s appearance.

“Nah, Buck,” Steve dismisses, “a lawyer’d eat up all that dough in fees. I’ll just guilt Clint into coming here every meal for the rest of his life.”

“Steven,” Clint says, mock serious, “the day Barnes learns to cook a real shepherd’s pie, you won’t ever get rid of me.” He knocks on the wood counter, “But for now, I’ll take the slice of Crazy Cake I know you saved out of the goodness of your heart.”

Steve winks and reaches beneath the counter for one of the glass food cases Phil knows he keeps under there, “Comin’ right up.”

Clint pulls the comic towards himself, “And get them something, too,” he gestures over at Natasha and Phil with the hand holding the booklet and smiles, “My treat.” He nods at Steve and raises the plate he’s handed, “We’re celebrating!”

Steve ducks back beneath the bar and surfaces with two plates and a cutting knife. “Phil, Natasha, this is Clint, he’s been coming here almost as long as you two have,” Steve tells them as he pares off full slices for them both. “Though, usually during the day.”

“The lighting in here is perfect from eleven to one,” Clint says, gesturing with his cigarette pinched between two fingers and his thumb. Natasha exhales a perfect ring of smoke and makes it look casual while she eyes the plate Steve sets in front of her.

“Clint’s an artist,” Steve tells them, “A few months ago he got his own comic book.”

“Steve, I can hear the green in your voice from back here,” Bucky calls out from where he's tucked back away in the kitchen. Phil supposes that quick-draw sort of reaction is what comes from twenty-plus years of getting to know someone better than you know yourself. He's careful to settle his own internal, little green monster raising its hackles at the idea of such intimacy.

“You want to do art?” Bucky continues. “Fine. Go back to painting in your spare time. When you’ve started making money on the side again, you just let me know and I’ll go right out to buy you a new set of paints and brushes.” Something sizzles on the burner and there’s the sound of running water for a moment.

Steve opens his mouth, ostensibly to respond, but Clint jumps in first; “Bucky, you gotta convince your boy to come join me at Marvel. I swear I’ll make him a millionaire, too.”

Again, Phil finds himself mildly surprised by the man’s modesty. He seems determined to keep the subject off of himself or his apparent talent.

“More like, he’d make _you_ a millionaire. What happened to him being the whole reason your stocking-clad superhero exists?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Clint dismisses, tapping off his cig.

Steve keeps busy by pouring Clint a mug of coffee but calls over his shoulder, “You’re just mad because you don’t like the way your character turned out.”

“Maybe I’m just wondering what part of ‘dashing, successful business owner and cook’ made him think ‘inept, impressionable, infant sidekick.’”

Phil catches a sly grin being hidden behind Clint’s coffee mug, “Well I couldn’t very well have an adult character named _Bucky_ , that’s just ridiculous.”

Steve grins, but doesn’t stop the dishtowel as it flies through the kitchen window and past him towards Clint’s face. Clint catches it deftly, midair and sets it aside.

“Aw, don’t be sore, Bucky. You’re the backbone of the story,” Clint wheedles. “Without you, Cap has no one to guide, no one to mould in his image.”

Bucky appears back in the window and thumbs at Steve, “You think this one’s ever been a good influence on me?” he asks Clint rhetorically.

Clint holds up his free hand like the answer is obvious, “The guy’s got morals up to here,” he marks a line in the air above his head. “Besides, they’re only _based_ on you two. If they were actually supposed to be you, I wouldn’t be able to give these things away.” He taps on the cover again.

“May I have a look?” Phil interrupts.

Clint’s eyes dart to meet his. He carefully closes the booklet and slides it down the freshly cleaned counter towards him. Phil rotates it so that it’s right-side-up and looks over the cover.

“CAPTAIN AMERICA,” the title proclaims in blocky, stylized letters. A man in a red, white, and blue, form-fitting costume, stands akimbo atop a pile rubble, a burst of light peeking out from the edges of his outline. In the background, a horde of German soldiers in chains are being led out of what appears to be a Nazi facility. A cheeky looking, masked boy stands beaming at his side. With consideration, he skims through once and just before he gets to the end he starts to flip back through it, carefully.

Clint is definitely watching for his reaction.

Phil is vaguely aware of the three of them tentatively picking up conversation; Steve starts telling Clint about a particularly interesting customer and they fall into some shop-talk. Natasha remains silent, finishing her cigarette and content to watch the others interact.

“I can see it,” Phil says aloud, looking down at the full-page illustration Steve had initially paused on.

The conversation stops; sentences drifting off as the three of them focus on Phil. He looks up and glances at Bucky then Steve before refocusing on the illustrator himself.  

“Mr. …”

“Barton,” he answers a little flatly, “But please, call me Clint.”

“Clint,” Phil inclines his head in acknowledgement, letting the ghost of a smile cross his face, for the benefit of the artist who seems to need the reassurance. “I’d say you captured them both accurately; the best of their personalities with enough of their natural, unflattering inclinations to make the plot interesting.” Steve huffs a little indignantly but Phil’s gotten close enough to them both, and overheard too many arguments carried in from their home and back allies for there to be any plausible deniability. He can feel Natasha’s amusement rolling off of her in waves – purely for _his_ benefit, of course.

The man’s good at hiding it, but Phil can tell that Clint’s a little surprised. “I mean, I came up with the basic idea, but they got someone else to write it all out,” he says. “I just did the line art and picked the colors.”

“Wait, did you-? By yourself?” Bucky asks, head popping back through the window and incredulity marking his words. A cigarette hangs between his lips. Clint nods and seems to just keep from hunching in on himself. Bucky disappears but the kitchen door swings open just as quickly, wiping his hands as he marches into the space behind the counter. He comes up to peer over Steve’s shoulder where he’s gazing down at the comic book, still in front of Phil who’s flipping through the pages again.

“I’ve told you how fast he is,” Steve chides. “Marvel’s lucky to have an artist that can make deadlines by himself. ‘S hard to find people with similar ‘nough styles to work together on one project and have it mostly match.”

Sometimes Phil wonders why Steve never stays with trying to be a professional artist for long. He’s good; even went to art school, Phil knows. Then he takes a bite of Crazy Cake and comes to his senses.

“I’m good with my hands,” Clint says casually, stirring a little milk into his coffee.

Bucky whistles low, “It’s more than just that.” He leans in a little more, “That’s really top notch, pal.” He wipes his mitt on the rag again before tracing a finger over thick lining. “You got a real eye for this sh-stuff.” He throws a fleeting glance to Natasha who’s taking a delicate bite of her cake. Phil withholds a smile at how sweet these boys always try to be in the presence of a lady. Clint rolls his eyes.

“You’re full of it,” the illustrator mumbles around a mouthful, “actin’ like it belongs in a museum or somethin’.”

“Screw you, Barton. Just take the dad-blamed compliment,” Bucky huffs, taking the cig out of his mouth and moving to pour himself a cup of coffee.

“It’s nothin’ special,” Barton shrugs. “You guys know how many hours I’ve spent in here borrowing models. Half those faces belong to your customers. I did it by rote.”

“That’s the best part,” Phil breaks in. Clint makes eye contact - is polite enough to take a sip from his mug as he does so. But when he maintains it, Phil continues by saying, “It’s obvious you care about the characters. Your art brings the story to life.”

Clint smiles wryly. “A picture’s worth a thousand words and all that?” He sounds somewhat sarcastic.

“Exactly,” Phil says, tipping his coffee mug in a casual imitation of a toast before drinking deeply from it. He catches the flicker of a smile from Steve. “Is this your first commissioned work, or do you have other published pieces?” Phil asks him once he’s set the mug back down.

“I used to draw caricatures in the park. And back when Steve was doing book covers, he recommended me to his editor so I’ve gotten to do a handful of those over the years.”

Phil suspected there was more to his work history than that, but he wasn’t going to do anything as rude or obvious as pushing for more information.

“Twenty-three,” Bucky drawls, setting his cup down below the counter. He pats Steve on the shoulder and ambles back into the kitchen. Steve picks the mug up and starts cleaning it.

“He means Clint’s done twenty-three book covers,” Steve tells Phil. Clint doesn’t react, continuing to aimlessly stir his coffee.

Phil nods appreciatively, “Anything I’d recognize?”

That wry, tight little smirk startles back onto Clint’s features, and he shakes his head, “Just romances. A few dime-novels.”

Phil levels his blandest gaze at him, “Who’s to say I don’t enjoy a good harlequin every now and then?”

Natasha’s scoff gives him away. Phil holds off on glaring at her because Clint is eyeing him over the top of his mug.

“I doubt these would’ve struck your fancy; they sent me copies and from what I read, the paper they were printed on would’ve been worth more blank.”

“You’d know better than I,” Phil concedes.

Steve yawns as he puts Bucky’s cup away, “Don’t let him fool you. You ever get the chance, take a look at his sketchbook. It’s aces. He does _fine_ linework for comics but his portraits can capture a soul.”

“Hogwash,” Clint dismisses, tone suddenly, startlingly Midwestern.

“You _could_ let me be the judge of that,” Phil says, surprising himself. Apparently it surprises Natasha and Steve, too, although Steve’s too polite to spare him more than a glance. Natasha stares openly at the side of his head.  
But Phil watches Mr. Barton closely enough to note the shifts in his expression. And it looks like he might capitulate.

“I’m an impartial third party. You know you can trust Steve’s judgement – he’s a fellow artist and not one for placations. I know enough about art to tell you what I see but not enough to give any serious criticisms. What harm could there be in showing me?”

Phil realizes he’s saying too much halfway through the second sentence. He’s revealing both Clint’s thoughts and that he was able to predict them. Forget the fact that it’s impolite and a bit strange for him to be so persistently interested in a stranger’s obviously personal artwork. But there’s not exactly a lot of weight to this situation. And Phil’s curious to see how Clint will react.

Clint wets his lips. “Maybe some time,” he says, hesitation present but unobvious. “I don’t have it on me right now … but if you catch me another day, ask again.”

Phil nods, and doesn’t hold back the small smile edging itself into the corner of his mouth. From the corner of his eye, Phil can see Natasha gearing up to say something, even though she normally wouldn’t give such warning.

“Steve?” Bucky calls a little urgently, probably from the storage closet based on how muffled his voice is. Steve throws a frown over his shoulder then excuses himself and disappears into the kitchen. Natasha settles back into herself.

“So,” Clint sets down his cup, “what brings you fine folk here at this late hour? Steve made it sound like this is a regular thing, but I can’t imagine that he also meant you both always look so glum.” In the moment, Phil doesn’t think he’s betrayed his thoughts but Clint manages to guess them well enough to wave a hand dismissively and add, “He’d have put that sad little note of concern in his voice that he gets when he wants to right a wrong but can’t.”

Phil ashes his cigarette to create a thoughtful pause. He glances at Natasha, still sitting primly, her coat draped across her lap as she leans against the counter and nibbles at her cake.

“Some good business is ending for us,” Phil says. Damn, he sounds morose even to his own ears.

Clint tips his cup in their direction, “All the more reason to celebrate with me; live vicariously. C’mon, have some cake. Put up your troubles for a few hours.”

Phil obliges, but Natasha just nudges at the contents of her plate.

“A strong drink would better suit both of our purposes,” she voices. And really, she doesn’t need to sound so disdained, Phil thinks to himself.

“Be that as it may,” Clint says before swallowing a bite, “this is what we’ve got. Take it or leave it.”

“I thought the Depression was over,” she mumbles before scooping up a chunk of cake with her fork. Phil gives her a small smile and turns to find Clint wearing one as well.

There’s a muffled thud, like someone bumping into something, from the back rooms.

“-sus, Mary, and Joseph,” Bucky can just be heard muttering as the kitchen door swings open. Steve comes through looking a little flushed. Natasha graciously looks out the window. Phil sips from his mug and taps his cigarette against the ashtray again.

A Fred Astaire song switches on, and Phil looks over to the jukebox. He chides himself for not realizing that Clint had gotten up and hopes Natasha at least won’t say anything about it. Steve sniffs and goes back to fiddling around beneath the counter. Phil’s stopped wondering if untoward things happen in the back rooms. Steve and Bucky live in Brooklyn Heights together, and the number of times Phil’s been in here late enough to catch fairies stopping in before heading to one of the queer speakeasies either speaks very highly to Steve’s tolerance, or to his God-given, generally protective nature. Phil doesn’t say anything or ask any questions, and neither does Nat. He knows that means a lot to Steve and Bucky both.

But there’s something about their attitude that gives Phil an alarming sense of safety. How they treat everyone well but keep to themselves and don’t make anything obvious unless someone trained to notice things is looking for it. They’re good boys, but Phil _is_ trained to notice, and he _has_ been looking. Looking, and admiring – because outright wanting is a step too far. It’s bad enough that he continues coming back here at indecent hours just for another taste of false safety.

Clint sits back down just as Mr. Astaire starts into his second chorus. Phil realizes he’d lost his head for a moment. He suppresses a blush at the thought that he’d probably been staring as Clint dawdled at the window. He’d looked very picturesque, gazing out into the dark street. But unless he’s got very good eyesight, he wouldn’t have noticed. Phil looks up from his coffee. The way Clint locks eyes with him as he settles suggests that maybe he had been caught after all, but Phil isn’t going to drop his gaze. Steve ducks back into the kitchen with a handful of cloths, and Clint goes back to toying with his cake. The music fills the otherwise silent diner.

By the time the song starts to wind down, Clint’s re-opened the comic and begun to peruse it again. Phil knows that comic book making is a fast-paced business, but he wonders just how many times Clint’s looked these images over. How many drafts did those pictures have? How many erasers died in the name of perfection before ink even touched the pages?

Phil swivels away from the counter, standing and pacing his approach to the jukebox. By the time he’s drawn a coin, Clint’s record has finished playing and been reset. It only takes a moment’s hesitation before he manages to make his selection. He never gets tired of hearing “In the Mood,” and maybe tonight, he’s hoping it’ll help him get into a little trouble. But everything’s nuances.

He watches Natasha light another smoke as he reclaims his stool. There’s a visible smile resting in the corner of her mouth, even around the white stick. He ignores it, and the three of them sit as the music fills the space once more.

The kitchen door swings open and Steve reenters.  

“Refill?” he asks, leaning back below the counter. Clint waves him off, as does Phil, but Natasha accepts.

A car passing in the street grabs Clint’s attention, which has Phil looking up as well. He listens to the passengers’ muted laughter but studies the illustrator’s features. The chug of the motor stalls at the corner, but with a kick and a pop, it starts back up and is heralded with a cry of victory. Clint smirks and shifts forward as they round the street behind him. Phil lets Clint catch him watching when he turns back. There’s no visible reaction. The artist picks his fork back up and finishes the last two bites of his cake before downing the dregs of his coffee.

“’Ve gotta get outta here,” Clint says once he’s swallowed. He fishes some coins out of his pocket and they ping neatly against the hard wood. “I’m meeting with my editor in the morning and it would be nice to stay on her good side for more than a day.” He stands and closes the comic, pushing it across the counter. “Steve, I’ll see you tomorrow.” He tips his hat to Phil and Natasha, “It was nice meeting you both.”

Phil is subtle about watching him leave, but stills himself when Clint pauses at the jukebox and picks out a song. He’s already out the door before the first notes of “In the Mood” start up again. Phil takes a moment to wonder at the surreptitiousness of what he thinks might be happening. Discretion is absolutely the better part of valor. But tonight, he’s full of pent up frustration; it’s begun building to an ache. This really seems like too good of an opportunity to pass up.

“I’m going out for a smoke,” he announces. Steve gives him a funny look until Phil holds up a cigar he’d fished out of his pocket – it had been a consolation present from Marcus for his essentially wasted efforts on this last mission. Steve nods his thanks for not filling the freshly cleaned restaurant with thick, oily, cigar smoke.

He’s hyperaware of the way his heels clap softly against the tile as he walks to the door. The quiet music and the muffled noises from the kitchen come into focus as it closes behind him. The first deep breath he takes clears his head. He swings a sharp left into the alley just beside the diner. The building next-door is full of offices – empty at this hour. It’s not tall enough to block the view of the night sky. He tilts his head back and stares at the moon, mounted in the grey-blue above and framed by a smattering of stars across the strip of starlight he can see.

A scuffling grabs his attention, and a shadow separates itself from the wall. Just as he’d hoped it would.

“I’m assuming you didn’t play that song a second time for your own benefit,” Phil opens, tucking away his cigar.

“Well, that depends on what context you’re referring to me benefitting.” And even in this dim lighting Phil finds himself appreciating how well Mr. Barton wears a genuine smile.

“Then not _just_ for your benefit,” Phil amends. “At least, I should hope this evening results in both of our favors.”

“Funny,” Clint says, stepping closer, “I was hoping for the same thing.”

Phil closes the gap between them, because the further into the alleyway they are, the safer this seems. He leaves about an inch and a half between them but Clint is quick to find his lapels and pull him all the way in. Their noses line up and Phil relishes the brief moment he can feel warm puffs of breath on his cheek, and his own breath bouncing back off of Clint’s. He lets his hands fall to Clint’s waist and then it’s easy to press their mouths together.

The light but present roughness of someone else’s stubble against his chin is something he’s sorely missed. He doesn’t feel out of practice – despite his lack of opportunity recently. Clint smells like woody aftershave and his trim waist fits so nicely between Phil’s hands. He wonders with no small amount of excitement how far he’ll be allowed to take this tonight.

Their mouths barely break before Phil’s nudging back in and sighing through his nose as Clint’s mouth meets his again. It’s tender and Phil puts careful efforts into his movements. Not pushy or invasive enough to bruise, but with enough pressure to make it good. He’ll easily be able to recall the general idea of this mouth – its shape and feel and friction.  
This time when they break for air, Phil only allows himself a final peck to Clint’s lips, and then the other man is drawing back.

“You kiss like you’re in a movie,” Clint says softly. Phil doesn’t even have the decency to blush; too preoccupied with the way Clint’s fingers are curling and uncurling against his stomach. He leans forward and sweeps an arm low across Clint’s back, ducking in to fit their mouths back together. He hopes it speaks enough of a response for Clint’s liking. Clint sags into the arm around his waist and tightens his grip on Phil’s lapels.

Phil cuts it short. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says reaching up with the hand he’d had on Clint’s hip to untangle one tight fist from his lapel. The other looses without prompting, and falls to Phil’s stomach leaving Clint seemingly fine with having both of his hands trapped between their bodies. The curling motion firms and without any other warning, Clint untucks Phil’s shirttails and begins manipulating his belt. The gesture is fleet and deft; Phil’s stomach flutters at the way those fingers move across such vulnerable parts of his anatomy.  
Their lips work together beautifully – a tight seal against one another, tongues just entering into play. But Phil moves it forward with a small gasp as Clint’s hand dips into his pants and confidently wraps around the shape of Phil’s dick.

“Damn,” Clint huffs, giving him a squeeze. Phil’s teeth clack together when he shuts his mouth to hold in his noises as Clint begins to stroke him. He retains enough of his senses to get his free hand on Clint’s crotch. Phil feels out the shape of Clint through his pants and his mouth begins to water.

He swallows, “I could say the same for you.”

Clint rolls his hips forward - Phil narrows his hand and twitches in Clint’s grasp. Clint grins with parted teeth before ducking in to mouth against Phil’s neck. The smooth bones just graze against an artery but it has a shiver spreading across his skin. He tightens his grip around Clint’s waist, only to slide both of his hands downward to cup Clint’s ass. Clint huffs a cut off grunt against Phil’s collarbone and rolls his hips again, driving their groins together.

Phil only gives a moment’s thought to the condition of the alley before dropping to his knees. He wants a cock in his mouth more than he cares about the state of his already rumpled suit or the believability of any excuses he might have to come up with.  
It’s arousing to stare up at Clint as he takes his hat off and drops it to the side. He loosens his tie and appreciates how far Clint's pupils are dilating as he watches Phil with wide, hungry eyes. He tips his own hat back a little further and shifts to spread his knees more. Down here, the angle is awkward, but Phil’s not nearly as distracted. It’s easy enough to tug Clint’s pants open and halfway down his thighs. Goosebumps mark his exposed skin and Phil presses kisses and spreads his wide, warm palms over them. With nothing else in the way, Phil is quick to shove Clint’s shorts down, and to get his mouth around the head of Clint’s cock. He gets a pleased sigh in response, and a tentative hand brushing against the side of his face. Phil leans into the touch before it can be withdrawn. There’s a moment of hesitation; Phil keeps his eyes downcast, though not totally closed. But the touch builds into a sure, firm gesture. Clint strokes a thumb over the top of Phil’s cheekbone down to the bolt of his jaw. It’s soothing and intimate and a nice farce to play into. Phil starts with a gentle suck and is met with a startled breath. He lets go of an asscheek get a grip on Clint’s dick out of the confines of his pants. With his lips wrapped just around the flare of the head, it’s more than tempting to press further and get as much of it as he can into him. He really doesn’t want to ruin the mood or end this too early, though. Phil adjusts his stance and uses the moment as a reminder to not rush himself. He gives another good suck then focuses on toying with the inch of dick in his mouth. His hand slides slow compared to the way his tongue swirls back and forth – precise and searching. Clint twitches and his muscles jump at the way Phil works him over.

“You look-“ Clint’s breath punches the air when Phil interrupts him just by tracing the ridge of his glans. He looks up and watches the expressions ebb and flow as Clint tries to compose himself. “ _Jesus_ – you look- Get a load of your eyes; so fucking blue.” Phil doesn’t know if Clint can actually see him with much detail or not, but the fact that he paid close enough attention to notice his eye color is flattering. “Your _mouth_ , your _mouth_. Christ, Phil.” And that’s the first time he’s said Phil’s name. It’s nice. Phil didn’t know it would be so important but he wants quite badly to hear it said that way again so his answer is to close his eyes and swallow – half instinct, half reward. Clint grunts a quiet, “Augh,” in response. “ _Phil_.”

Phil sinks further onto the dick in his mouth and it takes a moment to realize that he’s gripping Clint’s thigh hard enough to potentially leave marks. He gives a final squeeze before sliding both of his hands around and up to cup Clint’s bare ass. He hums and relishes the shiver he can feel all over until Clint’s hands move from clenching onto his shoulders to cupping Phil’s jaw and carefully pushing him away. Phil leans back – not resigned enough to settle onto his haunches. He meets Clint’s gaze evenly, just able to make out his features in the moonlight.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Clint pants, “I’m a big fan of suckjobs, but right now I gotta have something more.” He wets his lips and Phil wants to know if they still taste like coffee and Lucky Strikes. “Please.”

Clint really is asking too much of him, but Phil’s an adaptable guy. “C’mere,” he bids, already pushing at Clint’s hips to direct him how and where he wants. Phil turns him until Clint’s facing the wall – legs spread, one arm thoughtlessly touching the wall to ensure balance.

“Brace yourself,” Phil hears himself purr and struggles not to smile at his own clever innuendo as he leans in. Clint shifts with intent, and does lean against the wall, but jerks bodily when Phil fits his head between Clint’s legs. He thinks Clint might inhale to say something, but he doesn’t manage to get anything out before Phil starts sucking on the inside of his thighs. Clint’s knees lock suddenly, and Phil has to give a gentle push to the back of both to get Clint to relax. His momentary concern is eased when Clint lolls forward with a quiet moan.

“That’s it,” Phil says against a fresh patch of skin. He rolls the flat of his tongue out and starts to lap messily; biting and laving at Clint’s thighs, getting them wet. He cranes his neck to lick Clint’s perineum, sucks on his balls until they’re dripping. By the time he’s done, there are more than a few red and purpling marks, but Clint never asked him to stop and now his thighs are slick enough for what Phil wants.

He leans back to admire his handiwork and can just manage to make out the shine and a few imprints of teeth in the pale light. His gaze roves up the scant amount of untouched flesh that isn’t eclipsed by the cover of Clint’s upper-body clothing. Phil regards the keen stretch of fabric across Clint’s shoulders and upper arms. He wants to get under that fabric and see the skin-over-muscle for himself, but settles for pretending not to promise himself the chance of another time. He pushes Clint’s jacket and shirttails up – Clint hunches forward to help get them out of the way. Phil takes a moment to feel over the globes of Clint’s ass. He leans closer again.

“I’d love to bury my face right here,” Phil draws the tip of his nose in a line up the inside of Clint’s asscheek. He grips the flesh in his palms, exposes Clint’s hole and lets out a puff of breath close enough to ghost over it. “If it would be more than a tease, I’d spend the better part of the night working you open like that.”

Clint shivers once, then twice, from his shoulders down to his calves. Phil can hear him saying, “fuck, fuck, fuck,” under his breath. He leans in and busses the flesh where his nose had been teasing a line, ignoring Clint’s hole in favor of reaching between his legs and giving the base of Clint’s cock a sobering squeeze. He whines softly, even as Phil’s hand drops away so that he can brace himself to stand. Phil pulls Clint’s hips back until they’re cradled against his pelvis – leaving them pressed together from head to toe. Clint tips his head back and their jaws rasp together.

“Mmm, yeah,” he croons, nuzzling against Phil, apparently just as much a fan of the sandpaper sensation.

Phil’s hands sneak under Clint’s jacket, sliding up then back down Clint’s sides - drawing out the slow _shick_ sound his callouses make against the smooth cotton of Clint’s shirt. He squeezes at the barest hint of lovehandles, “Can you press your thighs together?”

Clint nods again and Phil’s already thinking about the patches of beardburn he’ll be sporting tomorrow. But that’s a problem for later. Right now he’s going to relish Clint’s obliging nature, and being allowed to show some unwarranted affection to someone he isn’t guaranteed to run into again. It’s not something many people let him get away with.

“Good; nice and tight,” he praises, hands slipping down to feel the firm flesh that makes up the front of Clint’s thighs. Clint’s muscles flex under his palms and Phil watches Clint’s cock twitch and smear where it stands up between his shirttails.  
Phil really wants to wrap his hand around that cock.

“Think you can hold us both up with those big arms and shoulders of yours if I don’t lean on you too much?”

“Lean all you want,” Clint tells him. Phil takes the permission and doesn’t hesitate to reach for that wet thickness. Under his chest, Phil can feel Clint’s shoulders flexing. And isn’t that something; Clint could probably fuck him into the wall if he wanted.

“Up on your toes,” Phil coaches as he bends his own knees just enough so that their combined efforts give him the leverage he’s angling for. He brings his other hand off the wall to line himself up, and Clint takes a shallow breath. Phil wonders if it’s anticipation, or if he’s only just realizing what Phil’s been working towards. He hopes it’s the former, and then he can’t help smiling when Clint’s ass pushes closer as the man says, “C’mon, you’ve been killin’ me, makin’ me wait this long.”

“And you’ve been very good,” Phil makes sure to keep his voice low enough to carry out of his chest and throat in direct vibrations against Clint’s back and neck. In his periphery, he can tell Clint’s biting his lip. “I think I should let you have it.”

Clint’s emphatic nodding ends with his head hanging backwards as Phil finally drives his cock in between the supple flesh of Clint’s legs. Phil’s free hand comes up to grip Clint’s hip as he draws back then forward again. The nice thing about sex like this is that pauses for adjustment aren’t necessary.  
The two of them are quick to build a rhythm and once they’ve got it going, Phil actually manages to do more than give Clint’s dick intermittent strokes.

“ _Yeah_ ,” Clint sighs, humping up into Phil’s fist. The stretch of his neck has Phil leaning in for a taste. It earns a whine and another cry of his name. He tilts his head and goes to town pressing soft kisses up and down Clint’s neck. He knows he won’t be doing the man any favors by leaving marks up here, so he’s careful with his teeth. But he loves the way the tender skin of Clint’s throat feels beneath his sensitive lips, especially now that they’re overworked with wetting Clint’s thighs. He really loves that Clint’s letting him get away with being this gentle.

But the more he gets into it, the more Clint’s quiet but steady stream of, “Unh, yes, Phil, yes, keep going,” makes it seem less like he’s getting away with something and more like they’re both genuinely enjoying it. He drinks in the litany – soaks up the way it turns him on.

It’s easy enough to get lost in the motions until he’s out of breath. He drops his head and hooks his chin over Clint’s shoulder in a mirror of the way Clint’s is leaned back over his. He stares down at his hand wrapped around the thick length bleeding pre-come – watching his own dick poke in and out just below it.

The taut, angled line of Clint’s body braced against the wall feels firm and fantastic. Clint’s ass and thighs jiggle with every motion. Phil imagines the picture they make from either end of the alley; the crescent of Clint’s back, the way his shoulders and ass stay pushed against Phil’s torso, the gap between stomach and lumbar. He stretches an arm out to brace against the brick wall. Clint gets another moment to enjoy the gratifying pace Phil had set when he’d first started jerking him off before it abruptly slows it down. Clint whines but doesn’t have the space to complain when a quiet “oh,” punches out of him as Phil increases the strength of his fucking. He’s slow to draw back but his thrusts hold more force and precision. It feels more powerful. Clint rewards him with more of those quiet little, throaty noises.

“That’s it, babydoll” Phil encourages, “Let me hear you.”

There’s usually a lot less grunting in these situations. Or a lot more. But Phil isn’t exactly a fan of fucking made competitive. This, however, is nice; understated, like Clint can’t really help the sounds he’s making. Phil drops a guttural grunt of his own as Clint squeezes his thighs tighter.

“Wonder what noises we could wring out of each other if I was in- inside you,” he says thoughtfully, “If you were inside _me_.”

Clint makes a choked off noise and Phil grins into his shoulder, “Yeah, I’ll bet those clever artist’s fingers would feel great up in me. Bet you’d look beautiful working yourself open with them. So talented.”

Their bodies keep rocking together, but Clint turns to nuzzle the side of Phil’s head, like maybe he’s trying to hide his face. Phil hums contentedly and presses his lips to the strong shoulder supporting his weight.

“You’re real sweet,” Clint tells him with breathtaking sincerity.

“ _You’re_ sweet,” Phil responds, and goes back to kissing Clint’s neck, saying under his breath, “So responsive; a little noisy and loose-limbed just from me getting you wet and playing with your dick.” Clint whines but Phil keeps talking, “Wonder what it would be like if I could get my mouth on you for real. If I could suck you off then eat you out. How’d you like that?”

“So much,” Clint whines. “God, would you do it like this? Would you just jump right into it? Give it to me right off the bat then make me take it slow?”

“Anything- However you want,” he promises. Clint stifles a moan but it catches in his throat. Phil cranes his neck again and watches his cock slip through the tight channel of Clint’s thighs, because _fuck_ , isn’t that a sight. Clint’s fingers curl against the wall – sensation and fantasy starting to sweep them both away.

One hard, mis-timed thrust sends them pitching forward to land on braced forearms. They both grunt softly but manage to keep pace. The change only serves to sharpen and stabilize Phil’s thrusts, to further increase the amount of power he can put into each movement. The new angle has Clint’s balls bumping and gliding over the head of Phil’s cock with every movement.

“Phil,” Clint pants. He shifts backwards, tilts his ass up invitingly until Phil’s riding his perineum, and suddenly the end is in sight.

“God, yes, look at you,” Phil whispers, his right arm dropping back down off the wall so he can take Clint in grip again. His pace is punishing, and his fucking picks up speed to match. Clint cries out and arches into the motions.

“Come on, we’re so close,” Phil tells him. “You’ve been perfect, an absolute jewel. Now we’re almost there. What do you need? Hmm? I’ll give you exactly what you-“

Clint cuts him off with a wordless yell and spills into Phil’s palm. Phil carries him through it until the drip of come onto his own cock, and the way he can feel Clint’s thighs quivering with aftershocks sends him following over the edge. Phil’s sure he doesn’t imagine the way Clint shivers at the come spurting over his thighs and onto the wall in front of them.

He wraps both arms around Clint’s waist and drops his head against the ridge of Clint’s shoulder in a lewd, too-intimate semblance of a hug. Lean all he wants, indeed. Phil stands there like that just breathing him in as they both struggle to actually catch their winds.

“Damn,” Clint sighs. Phil takes one last, deep inhale and makes himself pull away from the warmth of Clint’s body. It’s not so bad once he draws himself upright. And the tension that had been riding in his upper body and dancing at the back of his mind has been lost to the expected wave of endorphins. This was exactly what he’d needed.

His dick and thighs are a slippery mess, and Phil’s going to think of this moment later, the next time he needs relief. He stares at the slump of Clint’s back, even as he blindly reaches for the handkerchief in his inside, jacket pocket. The way his ass juts out and his arms are still braced against the wall is going to be something else Phil thinks of. He cleans up briskly, despite persisting sensitivity, before offering the cloth wordlessly to Clint. It takes a moment for him to push off the wall and accept it, but Phil doesn’t mind. He’s so still, and beautiful like this – easy to admire when his sharp eyes are turned away. Phil shamelessly watches him wipe himself down, but doesn’t say anything when Clint tucks the cloth into his own jacket pocket once he’s finished. There are _many_ things he’ll be taking away from tonight, he thinks as he tucks himself away.

Phil reaches for his hat, glad to find it dry, if a bit dusty. He shakes it off and tucks it under his arm to shoot his cuffs. Clint seems to be taking his time tucking in his shirt and adjusting his appearance. He bends over and picks up his own hat out of a shadow. Phil had realized it had fallen, but hadn’t seen where it landed. The man really does have good eyesight. Clint dusts it off a bit and drops it onto his head. He shoves one hand into his pocket and looks back over his shoulder.

“Think I’ll see you around sometime?” he asks. And damn if Phil doesn’t hear a note of hope in his voice.

He allows a soft smile to grace his lips, “I’d bet on it.”

Clint mirrors his expression and tips his hat with his loose hand before turning fully to exit the alley. Phil watches him hang a left and walk away from the diner. He leans back against the wall and looks up at the stars before his eyes drop to the old-fashioned bricks of the building across from him. For a moment his eyelids fall shut and he thinks of how he might contrive a second meeting for them. When his eyes open, he inhales the cool night air and drops the train of thought. There’s been more than enough folly for one night. Phil takes a moment to replace and adjust his hat before reaching into his jacket to retrieve the cigar and his lighter. He doesn’t often smoke after sex, but this feels deserved. Besides, he should at least pretend to keep some semblance of his excuse true.

He may have to ask Marcus where he’d gotten this one; the taste is rich and oaky. Phil wouldn’t mind having one again. He blows thick rings at the moon and the cigar dissolves quickly. The butt drops into a small puddle and Phil crushes it with his heel just to enjoy the feel of the ashes crumbling against the gravel. He tucks his hands into his pockets and exits the alley, suddenly aware of how chilly it’s gotten.

As he re-enters the warm diner, he calculates the odds of coincidentally synchronized lunch breaks.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> You've reached the end of the line. Thank you for joining me on another tour of the Marvel Universe. Your attention, in addition to kudos and comments, is appreciated. Please exit safely, and mind the gap.  
> You can find me on tumblr at my [ Marvel blog](mrwonderwoman.tumblr.com).  
>    
> Nighthawks is, without a doubt, my favorite piece of art but didn't ever think I'd do anything with my obsession over it. I would never be able to do it justice no matter how long I took to write something for it, but I think this turned out pretty okay and it sated my muse.  
>    
> Wikipedia has a nice, basic [overview](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1941_in_the_United_States) about what was going on in the US in 1941.
> 
>  
> 
>  **If you liked this story you may also like:**  
> [Recruitment Techniques Aren't Always in the Handbook](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10311191) by [florahart](http://archiveofourown.org/users/florahart/pseuds/florahart)  
> [Workin' for the Company](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5335391) by [ceria](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ceria/pseuds/ceria)  
> [ain't no angels gonna greet me](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10410348) by [vulpesvortex](http://archiveofourown.org/users/vulpesvortex/pseuds/vulpesvortex)  
> 


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